What’s so miraculous about Miracle Whip? Because, let’s be honest here, it’s just sort of like mayonnaise with flavor. I could put flavor in mayo in about three seconds and it wouldn’t even be close to a miracle, it would just be a case of grabbing a ketchup bottle or some garlic or the strained juice from Justin Timberlake’s salty jock strap or something.

Miracle Whip needs to be taken down a peg or two if you ask me. Maybe call it “Passable Mayo Substitute Whip”. Sure it’s less catchy but it’s at least true.

Today is the birthday of Miss Kat over at Rocketradio and although it’s traditional I write a kick ass poem for the event, this year my brain exploded and my verse application went with it, so instead, please all enjoy this photo of Kat’s surprise shagfest party happening late tonight after the rest of us are in bed. My, someone’s going to be sore tomorrow!

It was Britney’s birthday yesterday and the world celebrated that she actually made it to 27 without losing all of her fourteen marbles, although I’d say she’s not totally cured yet because it looks like she forgot to put on a top.

I don’t know about you (ladies) but I wouldn’t be able to have a good time wearing that dress. I’d be spending all night having a panic attack that my jubblies were going to fly loose and conquer the world the second I walked down a step or something. No one needs to see that with their cocktails.

Yes I know, I don’t post for weeks then I come back with this tripe. I do apologize.

Apparently Lindsay Lohan on “Access Hollywood”, referred to President Obama as the “first colored president”.

She then slaughtered a baby seal and sucked out its guts while commiserating with California’s decision to overturn the rights of gays to marry, by saying “It’s a setback sure, but soon fags everywhere will be able to get married like normal people.”

Kelly from Lavender Lattes held me at gunpoint and made me do this meme. Yes, really. Since I’m up exceptionally early I’m going to do it too. You can’t stop me. It’s about 7 weird or quirky things about me, to which I gasped aloud and muttered, “ONLY SEVEN?”

1. List 7 weird or quirky things about myself,
Or
2. Post the 5th photo from my 5th album for the whole dang world to see… (huh?)

7 Weird or Quirky Things about me:

One: Whenever I eat spicy food (and I like spicy food!) my ears tingle. The spicier the food the tinglier they get. It’s how I gauge my eatins! I actually had a sandwich from Subway last night that reached a 7.5 on the ‘OUCHY’ Scale! Those hot peppers, man. They’re weapons of mass tastebud destruction.

Two: When I get an idea I’ll think about it for hours. Days. Millennia! Like when I was thinking about how fun it would be as a project to build an abode from shipping containers a few weeks ago, I totally built the entire home IN MY IMAGINATION, from the welding to the wiring to insulating it… My brain latches on to something and won’t let it go till I’ve mentally covered it. I even pretended in my head like the shipping container thing was a reality show. “This is where I’m going to put the washer/drier and my spiral staircase will go here!” as I waved enormous power tools around and wore goggles and overalls and you all thought, while watching my mental TV, “Wow, that chick is AWESOME!”

Three: I hate to lose at games. OK, it’s not so much I hate to lose as I hate that I’m totally incompetent at them. For example, I’ve been playing this Xbox car racing game lately where the aim is to smash into as much traffic as you can at high speeds, which, let me tell you, is very therapeutic indeed, but part of it is racing at the same time and I hate when I’m being incompetent at it and coming in last, which is often. Now in real life, you can cut me off at the lights and I don’t give a shit so long as I don’t smash into your stupid ass, even if I might mutter a bad word under my breath. In a driving GAME however, I will take you down, sucker. I will pound you into the nearest wall and send you over a ravine to your bloody, twisted death. And if you beat me I will sulk and smash MY car into stuff because I am five.

Four: I always hold the phone to my right ear. I can’t do it on the left side. It sounds different and wrong. Plus I need my left hand free to make gestures.

Five: I like National Anthems. Shhhh.

Six: Sort of like the ear thing, I can gauge how drunk I am by how my toes feel. A couple of cocktails they tend to tingle, another one makes them all rubbery. My toes are all knowing.

Seven: I have a third nipple on my butt. OK, it’s not really a third nipple, it’s a little bump that feels like a nipple. I mean I don’t go around feeling up my own butt all day or anything but I know it’s there. It’s always been there. If I was feeling a whole row of butts, I’d know mine instantly due to that little bump. Now there’s an image.

If you read all the way through that, I’m impressed. You must’ve had a lot of coffee.

So Senator Obama is the new president of the United States! Congratulations to him and his crazy supporters for staging the biggest rock concert campaign on Earth, ever. Let’s hope he brings some positive change. He’s certainly a reason to hope so, anyway.

I thought Senator McCain might cry during his concession speech or at least refer to Obama as “Osama” or something equally bitter and twisted, but it turns out he’s classier than that. Nice speech too.

I was sort of hoping Obama would come out and do his victory speech shirtless, a hooker on each arm and hoisting a keg over his head while yelling “BOOOOYA!!!!” but you can’t have everything I guess.

Me, I had beer or seven though, HELLO!

Thought while watching victory rally: No one’s assassinated Jesse Jackson yet, how can that be?

In other news, while watching CNN’s coverage I noticed Wolf Blitzer can’t find a real chick who’ll talk to him so he decided to beam up a hologram one instead.

One minute she was totally standing in line in Safeway and the next…CNN. Why they did this I do not know because it wasn’t exactly compelling viewing. I mean she didn’t even have on the Princess Leia gold bikini or anything, which would’ve been awesome and spiced things up a little.

They did it again later with the dude from the Black Eyed Peas who couldn’t string a coherent sentence together (he wasn’t wearing the gold bikini either, probably for the good of mankind, in his case).

WTF, CNN?

Totally off subject but is anyone else having problems with Yahoo’s mail services lately? I haven’t been able to access my Yahoo mail in four days. I can access the account but can’t get into my inbox. What gives Y?

Here’s a heartwarming (Or should that be buttock warming?) little story for you this fine Monday, that came to my attention through FARK. Seems drive-by shootings have progressed to sail-by shootings. My favorite line is the last one: “…he was having further tests done to see what kind of projectile was lodged in his buttocks.” you know, in case that gun was firing skittles or puffer fish.

Here is my suggestion of how it all went down, kindly demonstrated by the cast of Star Trek.

“We’re ready for your dastardly sail-by shenanigans, foe. Bring it!”

“AAAH! I’ve been hit. The logical thing to do would be squeeze my breast. No, harder! Actually joke’s on you, because I was hit in the tooshie. It feels like someone fired a Klingon right up my poop chute. What is in there McCoy?”

“Well…uh…”

“Is there something you want to tell us?”

I knew I’d eventually work those photos in a post somewhere. Who knew it would be over an article on buttock shooting. Bon appetite!

When it comes to living conditions I’m a little odd, I’ve decided. It’s taken me a while to come to this conclusion but now that I have, a lot of things make sense.

You see, houses are all very well and good (and practical) but what I’d really like is to live in something a little more unconventional. Like a converted church with the stain glass windows still in place. Wouldn’t that be cool? Maybe a little odd, particularly for a diehard heathen like myself, but still, pretty splendid indeed. Or how about a renovated barn? That’d be kick ass, surely!

I also like the idea of buying up a bunch of those big-assed, metal shipping containers – those 40 foot long ones – and welding them together in various configurations then customizing them for the purpose of residing in them. You could have some pretty cool features, even though you’d possibly have to put up with your neighbors thinking you’d escaped from an institution for “special” people. (Luckily I’m used to that sort of thing.) But seriously, you could do all sorts of funky goodness with those shipping containers. Stop looking at me like that, you know I’m right! The Guv’ner is always right.

Then there’re these things. Am I the only one who thinks living in a giant passenger jet on a piveting pole is the coolest thing ever? I’m thinking not. Well ok, maybe I am. But come on, people, those are awesome and if you wouldn’t want to live in a giant plane in a field, you must be suffering from a rare brain mutation or something. Kind of like people who wear sweaters with pictures of their dogs on them (WTF?).

I’d also consider buying and outfitting some old train cars to live in or an out of commission boat or perhaps a grain elevator. No? I love Grain Elevators. Instead of the name of the town on the side I’d have it say “The Guv’ner invites you for pie” or “Guv Town”. Wouldn’t that be neat?

Or I could live in a tree house. I saw this documentary movie once about some old, crazy lady who lived in a tree house in some remote part of Hawaii and it was the coolest thing you ever saw. I mean sure, she was a dollar short of a wad, but man, she was the best kind of eccentric.

Or…I don’t know…a lighthouse or a windmill would be pretty cool. Anything funky like that would be right up my alley.

Anyone with suggestions of other possibly cool abodes, be sure to let me know, because I’m not insane enough already thinking about this stuff, truly.

Oh and hi! Sorry I’ve been gone so long. What can I say? I’ll make you all a mental cake. Or maybe even a pie.

I know, I know. Phones are a necessary evil. I’m not saying they’re not. But is it necessary to have it glued to your ear 18 hours a day? Can your sister in Oregon really not get through the day without hearing about your new Bed, Bath & Beyond tablecloth? The world’s become a stupider place since cell phones arrived on the scene. People wander all over the sidewalk like drunken ducklings, unaware of anything but their uber-important conversation with someone they’re probably going to see in about 20 minutes. They stroll out onto busy roads like text messaging, lobotomized halfwits, getting up in your grill and under your feet and making you contemplate a massacre when you just want to zone out on the bus after work. Plus, seriously I’m sick of hearing about your weekend, your bitch coworker, your sexcapades, your honeymoon in Spain and your meatloaf recipe, shut the fuck up.

2. Rain

Rain is an asshole. I hate rain. Sure, it makes things grow and the world wouldn’t survive without it, but screw that. It’s cold, it’s wet, it’s gray, it’s ugly and it makes my hair all frizzy. Let the rain flow into a giant, galactic funnel and divert it to some drought-ridden African nation or someone else who needs it badly. It also makes stuff smell funky and I don’t like funky.

3. Sculpted bras

I hate sculpted/molded bras. I hate them with my whole being. I hate going to an underwear store and all I can find are stupid, cock-assed, inch-thick, sculpted bras. They’re molded into shape and they’re so padded you could jump from a sixth floor window onto a pile of them and you’d spring right back up. However, if you don’t need or want to feel like your womanly mounds are imprisoned in a spherical mattress, you’re screwed because good luck finding anything modern and cute without padding and a plunge neckline. Well, unless you really like lacy granny flowers and seams across the center that would trip a racehorse. I don’t know about you but I love having huge, thick lines across the front of my shirt. Why is it almost impossible to get pretty unlined, unseamed or unpadded bras that don’t look like they were made for a hospital matron or a Victorian school marm? Also, have you ever seen a sculpted bra in a D cup? You could fit the whole of Germany in one of those babies! There’s no need for this insanity. Quit it with the giant sculpted cups.

4. Digital photo frames

What the eff? I can’t believe there’s actually a human alive who thought these monstrosities were marketable and classy. You might as well showcase a giant, neon “ASSHOLE” sign in your living room right between your Elvis clock and that glow in the dark pink flamingo you picked up in Florida. Seriously, just knock out a couple of teeth and start banging your sister right now. I’m horrified these things exist and even more horrified that someone somewhere has them in their house where other people can see their crazy.

Now please enjoy this totally unrelated yet incredible photo, demonstrating the awesome that is William Shatner.

I hate politics. I hate everything about them. I think almost every politician, once they reach a tiny level of influence beyond a local arena, becomes a giant, insincere, deceptive douchebag, intent on serving their own purposes.

Here’s the thing. If the guy/woman you are thinking of voting for spends more time bashing their opponent’s doings, past doings or private life, kick them to the curb. That’s my motto. Who wants a person who cares more about the bad stuff their rivals might be concerned with rather than the good stuff that they (your guy) could possibly promise to do for the people?

Not that most politicians “do” anything much. It’s not about doing. You only promise to do during debates because how else do you get support? Once you’re in power you just shag your secretary, drive around in a limo and go to functions with rich, corporate executives while smoking Cuban cigars.

I have a better solution anyway when it comes to debates and the like. I think the whole thing’s gotten way too sophisticated. It’s all smug looks during debates and challenges. It’s all about impressing the people with your colossal intellect at conferences and during lobbying.

I say reduce all that down to its most base level. Get the opponents to strip down to their underwear and wrestle. In mud. Or jello, I’m not picky. Even mustard would do. Someone could adjudicate by saying, “Today’s issue is abortion – GO!” and old Biden and Palin could strip down to their underoos and white cotton bra and panty set from Hanes (it’s up to you to imagine who wears which) and get slippery. Then the winner has a nice victory and the loser…I don’t know, gets sodomized with a banana or something for wasting our time.

Palin's Campaign Photo

I might even watch those debates.

On second thoughts, the mere idea of John McCain or Dick Cheney ever getting jiggy while naked in jello is making me taste bile although the allure of seeing them sodomized by a banana (or a splintery piece of wood) is enticing.

Everyone’s all about video games nowadays. Well guess what, I suck at video games. I always have. I used to find a lame one I sort of liked and stick with it for about seventeen years till it bored even me. And it was always the crappiest game like Sonic the Hedgehog, full of catchy hypnotic, highly annoying music and bright colors that would induce acid flashbacks and where I’d get to go around collecting gold rings with gay abandon till some bastard little spiky beetle type thing would smash into me and make me drop them all. Fuck those spiky beetle things, man, I hate those. I am over those little shitheels.

Then I used to play “Doom” sometimes. I couldn’t tell you if I was any good at it because after about ten seconds I would take on the exact shade of an under ripe banana and vomit on my cargo pants. It’s hard to waste bad guys when your innards are busy becoming outards. Games that induce motion sickness are not my friend even if they do promise the chance to blast several shades of cak out of any opponent, which, as you can guess, the Guv’ner is all about. It is just not meant to be.

I tried playing with Microsoft’s flight simulator for a while because I love planes and airports and all that business. I do, however, hate to fly so this seemed like a fair alternative. Soaring to wherever the hell I want in the world without actually leaving my armchair! Awesome squared.

Or not. I wasn’t up for starting off easy by flying a gentle little Cessna over the Hudson River on a tourist sightseeing trip or something simple like that. No. I wanted to commandeer a big, fuck-off sized 747 right over Manhattan and all the way to Europe. How hard can that be, right? Seriously. You get it in the air and point it east, all you need is a compass and some good cheer.

On my first attempt to take off I crashed. Right slap bang into the control tower at JFK. I mean there’s a 5 mile long, quarter mile wide runway right in front of me but I can’t find it, however a little control tower somewhere to the side is no problem for me at all. The second time I hit the grass and started a fire. Oops. When I finally made it into the air I had no idea which way was up and happily floated upside down till I crashed into the ocean. * Then I spent a happy hour trying to detect some famous landmarks of merit so I could smash into them, because crashing mythological planes into cyber versions of buildings seemed like a fun, innocent thing to do at the time before that shit started for real in the land of the T word. This was all before nine eleven I hasten to add, I’m not crass or anything.

I guess the moral here is, should you ever find yourself on a plane with me and both pilots mysteriously die from like…the plague or something…leaving me to fly the aircraft, it’s probably best to make sure you’re pre-armed with something small and sharp so you can slit your throat/wrists at any given moment to save prolonging the agony. There are worse things than ** motherfucking snakes on a motherfucking plane is all I’m saying.

So yeah. I’ll stick to my boring-ass old school computer games like Jewel Quest and Puzzle Express (shut up) and let you guys do the big, grown-up video games.

* I would never condone ACTUALLY crashing planes into buildings, honestly, except in cyber form where it is hella fun.
**This joke was topical in 2006 probably, thanks

I went swimming at the weekend because it was as hot as the inside of an Olympian’s gym shorts. I love to swim or just basically flail around attractively in the water while waves bash the hell out of me and force their way up my nostrils to make me splutter in a most ladylike manner, while trying to drag my shorts down around my ankles because no, right now I do not have a swim suit. I also, despite the factor 70 “fuck you” strength sunscreen, still managed to get some burn on my upper arms and nose. Basically I could coat my nose in peanut butter, gauze and whatever the hell that stuff is they make astronaut suits out of and I’d still get a burn there. I’m a pasty white enigma ladies and genitals. Envy me.

Usually on sunny days I resemble a mean alcoholic. You can spot me in a crowd by my large, red conk. It’s like a warning beacon. I could probably get employment by the coast guard to stand on top of cliffs to warn ships off the rocks. I burn, is what I’m saying. Religiously. My hair also lightens up and I almost look like a beach blonde Aussie surfer. It clashes awesomely with my lobster red nose and shiny forehead. It’s even MORE attractive than it sounds.

Still it was awesome because I like the water and I like summer and I aim to squeeze every last drop of sunshine out of it before it gets cold and I start to sulk for four months and whine about being cold. Basically this happens the second the mercury drops below 50 degrees. I wasn’t born to be cold, oh no. Still, every year I suck it up and dream about balmy summer nights while wrapped in a giant fleece sweatshirt and a frown.

Then, to start the week right, last night was what I call a “satisfyingly fat night” in that I spent it in bed eating brownies, crackers and cheese and watching “South Park”. I mean I defy the Queen to have had a more luxurious, ass-fattening evening than THAT. Go on Queenie, I defy you.

I’m in the laundry room today, frowning under the weight of the monumental decision of, “Will my bra make it through a non-delicates cycle?” when a woman decided I was her long lost friend. I met her last time I did laundry and she might as well have sat me down with a 100 strong questionnaire on who I was, what was I doing there and what did I do, etc. I mean nice lady, don’t get me wrong, but Jesus H. on a pogo stick. Cease the yapping, lady! She was an older, Asian lady and she liked to talk like I enjoy cake. This is Guv’ner hell. I like to grunt. And even then I’m selective. Especially while folding my underwears. Yes, I fold them, and?

Talking of underwear, I bought a ton of Hanes 3-packs of boy shorts a short while ago. All cute and soft and girly boxer-shorty. And the fuckers keep on busting on me. Now I know my butt isn’t anorexic but it’s not the size of Texas either and the shorts are kind of loose so why the elastic keeps splitting is anyone’s guess. Panty ghosts? Phantoms with scissors in the laundry room?

Cheap workmanship much?

I bought a bunch of Victoria’s Secret underwear around the same time in their sale and those are going strong. However, to bring up a delicate subject, ladies, is it just me or do some of their panties have unfathomably skinny gussets? I mean like a little, tiny peninsula of fabric that would break in a breeze? That’s just not right. A gusset should be like a giant kite swamping and protecting the principality of your netherlands not a tiny, anorexic sliver of fabric that gives you a stupendous front wedgie every time you move. Or do I just have an unfeasibly wide hoo ha? No. I do not.

I already wish I hadn’t started this topic.

I also had a badass dream last night about being in a giant elevator on the 260th floor and this elevator was suspended by only one wire in the center so it swayed around alarmingly. Even more fun – the floor was soft like a trampoline! Yes, really! I don’t know what goes through my mind sometimes, I swear, but I blame watching “Paranormal State” before going to sleep. Because I could not possibly be that warped all on my own steam.

There are a bunch of mutant freaks out there who can type 140 words a minute. Imagine that – fingers flying like fan blades in all the right places and not an error in sight. Those people -and some of you might be members of this elite team of alien superbeings, in which case, SCREW YOU GUYS – are miraculous wonders of humanity.

Now I have been touch typing for maybe 15 years since I got bored tapping on two fingers and taught myself and I’m fairly speedy and decently accurate (accurate at correcting errors at least!) but I’m not in that super human range of the people mentioned above. I know I can type 90 words a minute on an average. I know this because I have transcribed for a living and my times are slick, y’all. 90 is good but not super-good. I can probably squeeze out 100 if all the words are fairly short and maybe even 110 if they’re all ‘a’, ‘the’ or ‘or’. Ha.

Having said that, my ego just deflates the second I see a typing test. I hate those goddamn things. You know the ones I mean – where you have to type what you see on the screen in front of you EXACTLY – ‘exactly’ meaning every space, capital letter, piece of punctuation must be identical.

“So what?” you say. Well I’ll tell you if you’ll just shut up for a second. I suck at those tests. My brain gets all nervous, turns my fingers into like…giant CARROTS…and I proceed to spend three intense minutes making every error known to man. And you can’t correct stuff! When you type normally, you make a mistake, your brain knows it before you even do it and you correct it swiftly and automatically, but those typing tests? Mais non! You attempt to make the correction you get another error. Mamanfuckers.

Also, some of those tests subscribe to the clearly misguided notion that there’s only one space after a period. Hello? No. I hear that’s a new-fangled way of doing it but I’m a child of the 1980s people, I’m old school and if there aren’t two spaces after a period you need to be flogged with a salty whip. I’m just saying, because some of those software programs serve it up one way and some the other. WTF?

Then I get pissed because the smug, self-righteous computer software thing gloats “WELL DONE GUV, YOU TYPE 62 WORDS A MINUTE, AREN’T YOU FREAKING SPECIAL FOR A RETARDED PERSON?” and you are pretty certain you heard it snort. Then you pick up a sledgehammer (that you keep in your backpack for such emergencies) and beat seven shades of shit out of that computer while growling like a wolverine.

I hate typing software. That’s where I’m going with this. I might add a pie chart to this later as I’m feeling inspired. And a touch bitter.

Something reminded me today of the moment I first realized I hated the Uberlord and his over entitled, giant ego. I may have mentioned this before but if I did, pretend I didn’t and just suck it up, ok? Ok.

It was my first couple of days working at the company and for him in particular. He wanted to get a couple of his team members together for a chat about some rubbish or other, so he said to me, “Order coffee and half a dozen doughnuts for the chat”.

Now call me old-fashioned if you want, but when someone gives you a direct, specific sounding order like that one, your work is pretty much cut out. So I contact our cafeteria who do the catering and ask for half a dozen doughnuts and a large pot of coffee, figuring he and his two buddies will be well taken care of.

Imagine my surprise to find the “Chat” turned out to be a full-blown meeting in the conference room with 13 attendees all dying for coffee and doughnuts (I mean why else attend a boring meeting about progress reports, right?). That works out, for you math buffs out there, as less than half a doughnut per person and a nice little demi-tasse of coffee that wouldn’t satisfy a wood sprite.

When people commented on the lack of snackage, the Uberlord proceeded to make fun of me in front of everyone – “The Guv ordered the snacks, but she’s new and hasn’t quite got the hang of it yet.”

That old pile of rancid flesh.

I calmly said, “You asked me to get half a dozen doughnuts and some coffee, so I got half a dozen doughnuts and some coffee. You didn’t mention the 13 people thing at all!”

“Well you need to anticipate these things better.” he replied.

I spent the next ten minutes in that room, red as a lobster, fuming and “anticipating” all the sharp, metal objects I’d like to wedge up his anus with a sledgehammer and from that moment on I hated the man with a violent passion.

It never really improved. People would tell me on a weekly basis, “Oh you work for the UBERLORD! You are so lucky, he is SO NICE!”

No. No he isn’t nice. He’s nice to YOU, sure because he doesn’t know you and has an image to project. He’s the king of schmoozing because who knows, he might need you for something one day. It’s all about appearances. To me he’s vague, he asks for things he doesn’t really want then complains when he gets what he asked for and conveniently “forgets” ever telling me in the first place in a really passive aggressive, head-bashingly irritating way (“Well if you say I told you that I GUESS I must have but I really don’t remember, maybe you should double check these things with me first…”).

Anyway, it’s afternoon and I’ve had no cake in about three days so I’m feeling the hate today. Suck it up Uberlord you old fucktard.

The song I can’t seem to get out of my head today is, “If I Was A Rich Man” from Fiddler on the Roof. Why? I have no freaking idea unless some ghost was whispering it in my ear as I slept. Make it stop, immediately. If I could send a “cease and desist” order to my brain I would do it. Even the two weeks I was singing “Funky Town” every ten seconds was preferable to this nonsense. Are YOU singing “Funky Town” now? I AM sorry. Ha.

How come mosquitos can find their way into a tent through a tiny space the size of a nickel and buzz around your head all night, infuriatingly, yet, confronted with a huge, one-whole-side-of-the-tent open flap to the great outdoors, they fail to find it and get the hell out?

What’s so great about Beyonce? I don’t get it. Not even a little bit. Sure, she’s nice to look at but will someone write her a goddamn SONG please? The noises she makes is like the sounds a baby makes when someone is trying to pull its entrails out through its belly button. I’m only guessing though. I hate to sound like everyone’s grandmother but didn’t songs used to have tunes? Melodies. Contrarily, “Funky Town” has melody that stays in your head for months but it still sucks ass so maybe I should shut up.